


Colors

by tessaexox



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Enemies to Friends to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-28
Packaged: 2020-05-20 13:55:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tessaexox/pseuds/tessaexox
Summary: The war with King Loki of Asgard is far from over. And yet... His most valuable prisoner could very well be his undoing.





	1. Prologue

When I close my eyes, I see colors.

I'm going insane, I can tell. I blink and I see flashes of things that never happened, faces of people I've never met, and colors. Always colors. Maybe it's the dehydration. They only give me enough water to stay alive, nothing more. As for food, I'm steadily losing weight. I'm all skin and bones, and colors.

I've tried to escape exactly thirty two and a half times. Then they got tired of my antics and chained me to the wall. I have enough room to go about my business, but not enough room to be free.

Some of the other prisoners have cellmates. They decided that I was too dangerous and put me in solitary confinement. I've forgotten how to talk because I have no reason to use my voice. I used to mutter to myself, telling stories or counting or singing to try to stay sane. I have scars on my back from where they whipped me for being 'too loud'.

They do whatever they want with me. They beat me for fun and get frustrated when I won't scream. I want to scream. I just can't. And now my eyes refuse to make tears.

My wrists hurt where the chains dig into my skin and make me bleed. My head hurts because of the blinding white walls and the lack of food and water. My stomach hurts because it's so empty. My heart hurts because it has no reason to beat. Breathing hurts. Living hurts. I want to die. But they won't let me. For some reason, they keep me here. Alive, but just barely. It's like they're playing with me, waiting until I crack. What they don't know is that I cracked long ago. I just won't let them see.

Someone comes into my cell. I briefly imagine them pulling out a gun and shooting me in the forehead. It would be bliss. One final wave of pain and then it's over. Alas, no such luck. Instead, the guard unlocks my chains. I can't walk, so I am dragged through the dungeon. I concentrate on keeping my eyes open. Other prisoners become silent and stare when they see me. I was a symbol of hope, and one of fear. No matter which my name inspires in these people, they have seen me fallen. They have seen me weak. And they will probably see me die.

Execution.

I have longed for and feared the day when they will kill me. Some small part of me still wants to survive. The other part just wants it to be over with. I have a good idea about how I will die. The king loves irony. He will give me the chance for a warrior's death. He will give me a chance for salvation. He will give me the Blood Eagle.

As expected, I am taken to the throne room and left in a bloody heap in the middle of the cold floor. I can't move, and all I can see is the throne. I hate it.

I won't scream, I won't blink, I won't move, I won't beg for my life. Silence will be my defiance. I will stare at him without emotion. I will not give him the satisfaction of hearing my voice or seeing pain in my eyes. I will drive him mad. This will be my form of revenge.

I see heavy black boots. They are extremely close to my face. One of them delivers a sharp kick to my nose. There is a sickening crack and nauseating pain. I do not blink. The blood is flowing from my face like a river. "How far you have fallen." The voice is like silk. "Will you not laugh at me? Will you not spit in my face? Will you not call me worthless?" Someone snaps their fingers, and I am hauled to my feet. The guards have to support me so I won't fall. I feel cold fingers under my chin. They lift up my head. I can see him. The dark hair, the perfect complexion, the mocking smirk. And while I do not speak, I channel all of my indifference and apathy into my gaze, and I stare directly into his eyes. There is a flicker of surprise on his face, but he covers it up. He doesn't remove his fingers.

"It's rather comical," he says, "how pitiful and weak you are. To think, you almost won. You almost defeated me. But that is not the natural order of the universe. Foolish human girls do not defeat gods. There really is no other way this could have ended." He brings his face close to mine and puts his hateful lips against my ear. His skin is freezing. "I'm going to kill you," he whispers, and his breath is like ice. "I will spill your blood at the foot of my throne, and I will make you enjoy every second of it. You do not deserve an easy death, you mortal whore. I will make you suffer, and I will make you like it." His voice is deep and menacing. "Do you understand?"

I do not move.

"The correct answer is 'Yes, my king'."

I am barely breathing.

"Say it," he snarls. "Use your voice, girl."

Something in me snaps. I start laughing. Like a maniac. My voice is hoarse from disuse, but I laugh. I howl, I shriek, I giggle, and I cackle in his face. He slaps me with the back of his hand, hard. I collapse, but nothing will stop me from laughing. I'm still laughing when they pull me away.


	2. Lilac and Lavender

Colors.

My favorite color used to be purple, I think. My head is spinning too fast to think straight. But I remember loving the color of the lilac sky just as the sun disappeared, during that beautiful harmony between day and night and happiness. I remember my first kiss in a field of lavender wildflowers. I remember an amethyst sweater that I wore to school on chilly fall days and an orchid journal that I used to write all my deepest secrets in. I remember having violet sheets on my bed at home, when the world was still a place worth living in. But now all I see is black. A deep, spiraling abyss that I'm plunging into blindly, like one of those nightmares where you're falling and falling and you never stop. So I'm falling into an endless sea of darkness, and then I land. I slam into reality at terminal velocity, and wake up in a room that I don't recognize. I decide that I must be dead, because there are tapestries on the walls and dozens of blankets and pillows on the bed I'm in and sunlight streaming through tall stained glass windows and there's no way in hell a prisoner with a death sentence would get the royal treatment.

Then again, there's no way in hell he'd make dying this easy.

I sit up, bracing myself for a wave of nausea that never comes. I'm fine, it seems. My head doesn't hurt, the ringing in my ears is gone, my stomach doesn't ache with emptiness. Being okay is a strange feeling. I can't help but be suspicious. There has to be some sort of catch. Pushing away the warm blankets, I slip out of the bed slowly. My bare feet hit the cold stone floor, and I make my way to a mirror on the other side of the room.

I don't recognize myself. You wouldn't think you can forget the way your own face looks, but the girl in front of me is a stranger. She looks too healthy, too pretty, too normal to be me, to have gone through the tragedy that has been my life. She looks as fake as a wax figure, wearing a white dress that flows along her curves. And I'm pretty sure she's a cup size bigger than me. I lean closer to the mirror to look at her face, and a chill runs down my spine.

My scar is gone.

It's not like I can't find it. No, there's no way I could miss it. It made me wince every time I looked in the mirror, a deep line that ran across my left cheek, from my temple to my jaw. I had memorized that scar, despised it because it reminded me of everything this stupid war has stolen from me. It's completely vanished. The girl in the mirror has a perfect complexion, not a blemish to be found on her face, much less a scar. But she is me, and I am her. When I reach up to trace where the scar used to be, so does the girl in the mirror.

I back away. Something is very wrong. "I need to get out of here," I whisper to myself. Trying to keep my composure, I walk to the two heavy wooden doors and pull. Nothing. I push on them instead, and they don't move at all. I can feel the panic setting in. My heart beats faster. I back away, lower my shoulder, and throw my whole body into the doors. Tears start to run down my face and I pound my fists on the doors because I'm trapped, goddamn it, I'm trapped again. I collapse in a shaking, sobbing heap. And then I'm screaming, screaming until my throat is raw and I'm slamming my hands onto the stone tiles of the floor until they bleed.

I am out of my mind.                             

No one comes. I'm so sure that if I lay there long enough someone will come, because someone coming is so much easier than no one coming. Hours and days and months and years pass and finally, I pull myself off the floor. And I stand there, unmoving and unfeeling. Waiting. The blood has dyed my knuckles crimson and stained the ground, but I ignore everything. I want to be strong. I have a feeling that he is watching, that he's laughing at me and testing me, and I realize how pointless this all is. I have nothing to fight for. I have nothing to live for. But that sure as hell doesn't mean I won't go out in style.

Ever so delicately, I curtsy. "All hail," I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice like poison. And then I turn around and get back into bed, pulling the blankets up over my head.

Some time later, the doors open. I can hear heavy footsteps, slowly coming closer. I don't move. No one speaks, and I don't either. I'm not playing this game anymore. They can't make me. The person must have realized that I wasn't going to give in, and the footsteps start again. "I trust you've slept well?" The voice is smooth and drawling and I recognize it immediately. Him. I don't answer. "Don't tell me you're giving me the silent treatment," he says. I can almost hear him rolling his eyes, but I still don't move from under the blankets, not wanting to look at him. He can think I'm dead, for all I care. I feel pretty dead anyway. "I thought that perhaps we could both handle this like reasonable adults, but apparently that's not the case," he continues. "I simply needed to speak with you about something, but if you're going to hide and sulk like a child, be my guest. Just know that it's your time you're wasting, not mine." There's the sound of the swish of a cape, and then the footsteps are walking away again.

"And how much time do I have left to waste, exactly?" The words slip out before I can stop them, and they're barely a whisper. The footsteps stop.

"Pardon?"

"Weren't you, oh, I don't know, planning to kill me or something?" I say.

There is a soft laugh. "Kill you? Oh, no. Whyever would I want to do that?"

I sit up suddenly, throwing off the blankets. "I don't know what kind of game you're playing, but don't you dare pretend to be friendly. I hate you, and you hate me. Acting as if that's not true is pointless."

He looks amused. I've forgotten how breathtaking he is, all angles and shadows and magic. I catch myself staring at the thin lines that make up his smirk, and then the sharpness of his jaw, and then the impossible smoothness of his cheeks, and the high expanse of his forehead, and then finally settling on his eyes. I can't decide what color they are, and I'm considering it when I catch myself. It's been an awkward amount of time, and he's clearly noticed me noticing him, because his smirk widens. "Do you like what you see, darling?" he says in that silk voice of his.

"All I see is a narcissistic asshole that thinks it's fun to play dress-up and run around in a crown that doesn't belong to him," I scoff.

His smirk widens. "Oh, but it does belong to me. I was raised to believe that this crown was my birthright. I simply took what I was promised. That's not so bad, is it?"

"It is when you kill millions of innocent people and needlessly try to enslave an entire planet. My planet."

He walks towards me. "Please. I'm doing your planet a favor. You think you mortals were doing fine on your own? Really? Come on. All you humans know is poverty and war and death."

"Which you're trying to solve by causing more poverty, war, and death? Stop kidding yourself," I snap.

"I didn't come here to have an arbitrary discussion about my motives," he says, swiftly avoiding the accusation.

"So why did you come here? And better yet, why am I still alive?" I'm honestly curious. I was expecting him to make my execution a public spectacle, but here he is, acting like we're not trying to destroy each other.

"I want you to deliver a message."

Immediately, my hopes soar. Maybe he's letting me go back home, even if it is just to deliver some stupid message. Maybe he doesn't need me anymore. Maybe I can see everyone again. Maybe... Of course, he wouldn't let me go that easy. "A message?" I manage to say.

"I think it's time that people know that you're still alive."

* * *

I can't imagine what people are thinking when they see this. A video of me is playing on every screen on Earth and watching it, I feel sick. It starts with me sitting down in a comfortable chair, but I'm clearly not relaxed. The background is nothing more than heavy curtains to conceal our location. They have done their best to make me seem natural and happy, but my eyes dart nervously and sometimes look somewhere off behind the camera. Small details, but I pray that my friends will notice. The girl on the screen smiles, somewhat timidly, brushes a strand of hair behind her ear, clears her throat. Watching her, this girl who is both me and someone I've never met, unsettles me. "My name is Celeste Valentine," the girl says, but her voice is wavering slightly. "I am a S.H.I.E.L.D agent. My task was to wage war against the Asgardian known as Loki, until I was captured by his forces a little more than two years ago. I know you must be so incredibly tired of fighting, as am I. Luckily, the end to this senseless violence is near. Peace is possible. All we have to do is accept it." She looks like she wants to throw up. "If we surrender, there will be no more casualties. Loki of Asgard will rule us with mercy and kindness. However, if we refuse, many more lives will be lost for nothing. I beg you all to consider what your lives are worth and what is truly best for the people you love. Finally..." She swallows hard. "Finally, I want to say that King Loki has my full support. I admit that I misjudged him, but now that we have gotten to know each other, I have realized that we both want the same thing. Peace. If you trust me or believe in me or care about me, I beg you to see the truth." She forces a smile. "I hope to see you all soon." The screen goes dark.

"I do so love that line in which you call me your king." I flinch at his approaching footsteps. The control room that I'm sitting in, the same place we filmed the video, is full of guards and chattering technicians who fall silent at his arrival. Turning away from the screens, I meet his gaze. For a moment, we are the only two people here. I imagine myself killing him. I can see myself lunging towards him, wrapping my hands around his throat, squeezing until his eyes bulge and his breathing stops. He smiles as if he senses my thoughts. "We make such a wonderful team, don't you think?"

I resist the urge to scowl or spit in his face. "We're not a team. We're literally on opposite sides of a war," I snap.

"For now. Come with me."

"I'm not going anywhere else with you," I say, standing my ground. "What you made me do just now? That was complete and utter betrayal of everything that I stand for. I've dedicated my life to fighting you, resisting you with every breath, and I'm not going to stop. I will never stop. I guess you're just going to have to kill me, because I'd rather die than spend another minute doing your bidding."

There is cold and careful rage in his eyes as he comes towards me. He prowls like a cat, and he towers over me when he finally stops. His body is a heartbeat away from mine. I would barely have to lean forward to press myself fully against him, and I hate it. I hate how I have to force myself to look up at him and conceal my fear, no matter how much I'd love to run as far away from him as possible. "Why did you do it, then?" he asks, voice low.

"To give my friends hope. So they at least know that I'm alive. And anyone that knows me knows that I'll die fighting you."

He laughs mirthlessly. "You think that gives them hope? If anything, you just crushed the last sliver of hope they had. You just admitted that you fully support me as your king. And even if they can tell that you were lying, we could have filmed that months ago and just now released it."

"They'll come rescue me. I know it."

"Don't flatter yourself. If they were going to send in the cavalry, they would have done it already. Clearly you're not as important to them as you seem to believe." I step back in shock, the words hitting me like a punch in the gut. He grins at my reaction, seeing that he's struck a nerve, and takes his opening. "They used you. They exploited your talents and make you grand promises and then they tossed you aside when they were done with you. We're more alike than you think, you and I."

"I am nothing like you," I say, but it sounds unsure even to me. I'd always assumed that S.H.I.E.L.D would try to do something to save me. But as much as I hate to admit it, Loki is making sense. If it was my call to make, speaking strictly strategically, I wouldn't waste the time or resources on a rescue mission that probably wouldn't even work. This isn't just about strategy, though. I thought these people were my family. It's selfish and stupid and naive to even think about, but... If they really cared about me, wouldn't they come for me? I look down at my feet, clenching my jaw to avoid the emotions that threaten to overwhelm me.

His voice is much softer when he speaks again. "We have many similarities, Celeste Valentine. You may be a mere mortal, but you are undeniably brilliant and strong of will. You have endured hardship and refused to accept the unfair circumstances of fate. You are unappreciated and underestimated constantly, especially by those you hold dear. I know these traits and feelings well." There is a pause as a cool, gentle finger lifts my chin so my eyes meet his. He does not withdraw his touch, and I can sense that we are both lost in this moment, in one way or another. "I wish to speak freely with you. In a comfortable place where we can discuss our true thoughts. I do believe you will come to agree that we are not so different after all."

It is all I can do to step away from him and nod.


End file.
